


Thirty-Nine

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Car Sex, Episode: s06e01 Memory Lost, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2016-11-19
Packaged: 2018-08-31 18:12:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8588635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: “I’ve got an idea,” he says with a grin, tugging the duffel bag away from Scott and stowing it in the front seat. After a moment, Scott’s eyes spark with recognition and he groans again, although he doesn’t move towards the door.“Stiles, I can’t miss any more classes,” he says. “I missed thirty-eight last semester!”“Scott, it’s just-““Thirty-eight, Stiles!”(or, the one where the 'thirty-eight classes' conversation takes place under very different circumstances, and ends far more happily for everyone involved)





	

Stiles isn’t sure if there’s something about his face or demeanor that makes people unconsciously target him when they’re in the middle of spilling food, but seeing as he’s never made more than a month into the school year without having _something_ spilled on him, he’s starting to think that it’s a theory he should really look into. 

He’s managed to outdo himself this time; he's barely four days into senior year, and he’s already ended up with milk all over his front, courtesy of some freshman who had just so happened to be holding their lunch tray in the exact spot he’d been gesturing. The thought of getting some food for himself has long since left his mind; the milk has already seeped through his overshirt, and it’s only a matter of time before it gets through his tee to his skin, and that thought makes him want to gag. Milk is meant to go in his mouth, not all over his stomach. 

“I don’t get how this happens to you every year,” Scott says, easily keeping stride as Stiles power-walks out of the cafeteria and into the quad. 

“And you think I know?” Stiles asks, madly gesturing to the still spreading stain on the front of his shirt. “Like, if I thought Deaton had some kind of spell or _thing_ to prevent exactly this from happening, I would have gotten it out of him years ago.” Lydia, Kira and Malia are sitting at a table in the shade and when Lydia glances at him with a raised eyebrow, he simply plucks his wet shirt and points it in her general direction. 

The eye roll he gets in return from all of them just makes him groan with frustration. 

“Can’t believe I’m going to miss lunch because of some stupid freshman,” he mutters, quickening his pace once he gets to the parking lot. He can barely see the Jeep’s roof over the seemingly endless rows of cars; he’d gotten to school with exactly two and a half minutes before the first bell this morning, and every single good spot had been taken. The one he’d managed to secure after driving in frantic circles around the lot is in the very back corner, right up against the treeline. 

“You can have some of mine if you want,” Scott says. “Mom sent me with leftovers.” 

“It’s fine,” Stiles says. “I think you need the energy more than me. I probably have something shoved in the Jeep.” If there’s one thing he’s learned since Scott became a werewolf, it’s that keeping spare sets of _everything_ in his car is vital. He has a duffel of Scott’s clothes, a duffel of his own clothes, some shorts and tank tops for Malia, a case or two of bottled water, a fully stocked first aid and road emergency kit, and a box of protein bars that cost him an arm and leg. 

The only issue is that, while he _does_ have all that stuff, it’s not exactly organized in any discernible way. When he opens the back of the Jeep, he’s greeted with a mass of things, sprawled across every square inch of space. His lacrosse stick is resting diagonally across the entire pile, and he doesn’t know where to even start digging. 

“Think you can find my clothes with that super powered sniffer of yours?” he half-jokingly mutters to Scott. Scott _does_ try; he leans forward into the back of the car and sniffs, nostrils twitching minutely as he turns his head this way and that. 

“Sorry,” he says valiantly after a few moments. “The whole thing smells like you and me. Maybe it’ll be easier to dig from the other side?” 

“Maybe,” Stiles says, slamming the trunk closed. At this rate, he’s willing to try anything, just so long as it gets his damp shirts off quicker. He fumbles his keys from his pockets, unlocks the Jeep, and throws himself into the backseat. Before the milk can progress any further, he yanks his shirts off and tosses them into the foot well on the passenger side. Even if he can’t find the duffel bag, maybe by the time he’s done searching, they’ll both be dry enough to put back on.

“They’re in here _somewhere_ ,” he says, throwing half of his body over the back seat and shoving things around. A loose bottle of water goes flying into the back window, and he finds a lacrosse ball that’s been missing for a week, but it’s at least another minute before one of the duffel bags comes into view. Even then, it’s Scott that ends up finding it.

“Well, here’s one of them,” he says, easily yanking the bag out from under the mess and sitting back on his knees. “I think it might be mine.” 

“Don’t care,” Stiles says. It would be far from the first time he’s worn something of Scott’s, and the whispers and gossip that it used to evoke among the other students has long since died down. Just as Scott reaches for the zipper on the bag, the bell announcing the end of their lunch period echoes across the parking lot. 

“Damn it,” Scott sighs. “We’re going to be late.” He’s not wrong; there’s only five minutes between the warning bell and the beginning of their next class. That gives Stiles approximately three hundred seconds to find and put on a shirt, find a protein bar or some other form of sustenance in the back of the Jeep, get back across the parking lot to the school, get his history book from his locker and make it to class. 

He _might_ be able to do it, if he starts moving immediately, but when he glances over at Scott, his mind immediately starts drifting to other options. After all, he _is_ shirtless, in the back of his car, with Scott, and this far back in the parking lot, it’s unlikely that anyone is going to stumble across them. It has all the makings of a good time, as far as he is concerned. 

“I’ve got an idea,” he says with a grin, tugging the duffel bag away from Scott and stowing it in the front seat. After a moment, Scott’s eyes spark with recognition and he groans again, although he doesn’t move towards the door.

“Stiles, I _can’t_ miss any more classes,” he says. “I missed thirty-eight last semester!” 

“Scott, it’s just-“

“Thirty-eight, Stiles! Ms. Martin will kill me. You know she will.”

“Not if she doesn’t find out,” Stiles points out. “Besides, it’s just history. You _know_ Ms. Ruthers is just going to make us watch more of that documentary while she sits at her desk and plays Candy Crush.” Scott groans again, but he doesn’t actually seem upset. Stiles is intimately aware with Scott’s various tells when he’s upset, or panicking, or scared, and there’s nothing in his expression but a small amount of understandable conflict, which Stiles thinks he can clear up with a little more talking. “If you’re really worried, I can find the movie online and we can watch what we missed after practice, alright? I’ll have you back by psych class, promise.” 

That’s the limit of his persuasion; he has no interest in making Scott stay if he truly doesn’t want to. That kind of thing doesn’t fit into their relationship; admittedly, they’re still trying to figure out what exactly _does_ fit into their relationship, which puzzle pieces fit together and which need to be straight up discarded, but that’s one thing Stiles knows absolutely. 

He wants Scott to be with him because he truly _wants_ to be, not because he feels obliged to be. 

After a moment, Scott twists in his seat, eyes sweeping the environment around them. There’s cars on either side of them, the trees are at their back, and the parking lot in all directions is empty of both students and teachers. When he settles back down, he drops his legs down and slides over, away from the door. 

“You’re the worst,” he says with a long-suffering sigh, but the bright grin stretching across his face shows that he’s truly present in the moment. 

“You love me and you know it,” Stiles retorts, sliding across the seat and throwing his leg over Scott’s lap. He wraps one hand around Scott’s shoulder and pulls himself up so that he’s straddling Scott properly, knees snug against his hips on either side. 

“I do love you,” Scott says, perfectly solemn. It seems wrong for Stiles to immediately dive for Scott’s mouth after a remark like that, so he settles for dropping his forehead against Scott’s and waiting patiently, fingers wrapped up tight in the fabric stretching over Scott’s shoulders. He closes his eyes and simply focuses on the moment, on Scott’s quiet, rhythmic breathing. Scott runs one of his broad hands up the path of Stiles’ spine, over the nape of his neck, and into his short hair. Goosebumps follow along in his wake. Finally, he tugs gently on Stiles’ hair, just hard enough for him to open his eyes once more.

“Sorry,” he says, lips crooking into a small smile. 

“Don’t apologize for that,” Stiles replies, brushing one thumb along Scott’s neck. “Seriously.”

“Okay.” In the seconds that pass before Scott cranes his head up to meet Stiles’ mouth with his own, his smile only grows larger. Stiles isn’t exactly sure when his feelings for Scott fell over the line separating friendship from something more, but he knows that that grin is one of the reasons _why_ he crossed that line. 

The kiss starts out slow, barely more than their lips brushing with the occasional flicker of tongue, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Scott’s usually content to draw things out for as long as possible, but there must still be some kind of worry about missing class present in the back of his mind, because after Stiles tries to pull away to refill his aching lungs, Scott’s sharp (but thankfully human) teeth gently seize his bottom lip and give it a single sharp tug that has Stiles digging his fingernails into Scott’s shoulders. 

The problem with dating someone you’ve known for your entire life, he muses, is that you’ve definitely told them, more than once, the things that drive you wild, and they aren’t afraid to use those things to their advantage.

On the other hand, the _awesome_ thing about dating someone you’ve known for your entire life is that you know exactly how to get back at them. 

Stiles sucks in a deep breath, leans back down and, at the last moment, twists his head to the right, ducking his face into the junction of Scott’s neck and shoulder. He tugs Scott’s shirt down far enough so that he can settle his lips on the rounded hardness of Scott’s collarbone. When he sucks the already taut skin between his teeth, Scott groans and drops his head back against the seat, hips arching up against Stiles’. His grip in Stiles’ hair tightens and his previously free hand curls around the back of Stiles’ thigh, right below the curve of his ass. 

“Fuck,” he breathes out when Stiles lets the skin drop from his mouth in favor of directly scraping his teeth along the line of the bone. He follows it to where it meets Scott’s shoulder and repeats his actions, doing everything he can to make Scott groan. He has plans on copying everything over to the other side of Scott’s body, but when he sits up so that he can switch sides, Scott pulls him back to his mouth. This kiss is almost bruising; at the very least, it’s going to leave Stiles with swollen lips. When he traces his tongue along the inside of Scott’s mouth, he very carefully trails it along the point of Scott’s canines. 

Scott may be able to keep most of his body under control when it comes to this sort of thing, but Stiles is fairly sure that Scott’s teeth are just a little too pointed, straddling the fine line between human and wolf.

After that, there’s no returning to their earlier pace. Scott’s hand drops from his hair and takes up residence on his hips instead, smoothing over warm flesh alive with nerves. His fingers periodically flit over the line of skin right above the waistband of Stiles’ boxers, which is peeking out from his jeans, and it’s _so close_ to where Stiles is achingly hard that he could almost cry with need. Thankfully, Scott doesn’t make him wait too long. After two tries with one hand, he manages to get Stiles’ belt, button and zipper open, relieving some of the excruciating pressure.

And that’s when Stiles belatedly realizes how awkward of a position they’re in. On the previous occasions that they’d fooled around in the back of the Jeep, they’d both been wearing considerably less clothing, and there’d been a little more room for them to stretch out. Technically, Stiles could fall back onto the seat and shimmy his jeans off, but he’s more than a little reluctant to climb off Scott’s lap. Besides, just in case someone _does_ come along, having jeans at least partially on might preserve some of his modesty. 

Maybe. They’ll just have to make it work. 

He sits up onto his knees and shoves his jeans down as far as they’ll go. They end up caught just underneath his ass, and he feels more than a little trapped by the constricting fabric, but he thinks he can manage for a few minutes. Scott wastes no time in joining him; he doesn’t take his shirt off, but he shoves his own jeans down to his knees, his movements forcing Stiles’ thighs further apart. The stiff denim is definitely going to chafe his skin before they finish, but he’s pretty sure that he has hand lotion somewhere in the depths of the trunk. 

But that’s something to worry about later. 

Scott doesn’t try to contort his hand so that he can fit it under the elastic waistband of Stiles’ garishly patterned boxers. Instead, he licks a stripe up it and slides it into the loose leg hole. By the time Stiles realizes what Scott's done, Scott’s fingers are already wrapped around his cock. He sinks his teeth into his bottom lip in order to bite back a moan and immediately drops his hands to Scott’s waist, scrabbling his fingers along his stomach so that he can return the favor. Their elbows smash together a few times before Stiles manages to twist his wrist to slide under the waistband of Scott’s briefs. The elastic scratches at the inside of his wrist as he thumbs at the head of Scott’s cock, and Scott groans softly as he arches up into Stiles’ hand. 

“Stiles,” he sighs, just the barest hint of a growl slipping into his voice. Stiles hears it as a warning for him to stop fooling around and get down to business, and since he’s never been good at denying Scott anything (even when doing just that almost undoubtedly would have benefited himself), he complies with the unspoken demand. He spreads his legs as far as the restricting confines of his jeans will let him, so that there’s more room for both of them to work their hands. His forehead drops against Scott’s and he lets his eyes fall closed. As lovely as Scott usually looks when he’s right in the middle of a hand-job, removing one of his senses means that there’s less chance of him getting distracted by something outside. It makes it easier to focus on everything else; the rough sound of spit-slick digits dragging along hard flesh, the feeling of Scott’s exhalations as he gasps against Stiles’ mouth, the smell of clean sweat and deodorant coming from his body. 

The whole combination is more intoxicating that anything Stiles has ever drank. 

Stiles only stops the rhythm of his hand to re-dampen his palm with spit. He’s pretty sure that there’s lube buried somewhere underneath the seat, but that would require twisting away, and that just isn’t an option. Scott doesn’t seem to mind too much; his hips are arching off the seat in a steady beat, thrusting up into the tight circle of Stiles’ fist. Stiles’ ability to thrust is rather limited by the jeans still wrapped around his thighs, but the speed and slight twisting of Scott’s hand more than make up for the absence. He knows it’s not going to be much longer before he finishes, so long as Scott keeps doing exactly what he’s doing. 

Almost as soon as that thought floats into his mind, Scott does something entirely unexpected. 

His free hand, which has been splayed across Stiles’ left thigh, curves around the back of Stiles’ leg and slides into the back of his boxers. It lingers for a moment on Stiles’ ass before it keeps moving further, until two of Scott’s long fingers are pressed against Stiles’ entrance. He doesn’t try to push in any further, but the blunt pressure still makes Stiles’ nerves spark, and arousal tightens in his gut. 

“Is that okay?” Scott pants, curling his fingers a little harder. 

“Uh-huh,” Stiles replies, tightening his free hand on Scott’s hip and twisting his fingers slightly around the head of Scott’s cock. “Fuck, Scott, stay right there.” Scott slurs something that might be the word _okay_ and does as Stiles asks, rubbing slightly but never trying to push in. Stiles’ thighs are aching with the effort of holding himself up on his knees but thankfully, before his legs cramp up, Scott twists his wrist just so and Stiles comes with a jerk and a bitten-back _fuck_. His boxers catch most of the mess but when Scott wriggles his hand out, a few droplets cling to his fingers. As he raises his hand to his lips, Stiles’ mouth, already slack from the orgasm, loosens even further. 

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he groans as Scott’s tongue brushes against the tip of his index finger. He wants to sag down against the seat, but he has Scott to take care of first. He speeds up his hand slightly and starts pressing his mouth along Scott’s hairline. Sweat tangs against his tongue as he keeps moving, whispering nonsense against Scott’s flushed skin. There’s not much warning before Scott comes; he moans around one of his own fingers, his hips stutter hard against Stiles’ fist, and Stiles' fingers grow warm and wet. 

“Good boy,” Stiles mumbles, only half paying attention to what he’s saying as he absently wipes his hand off on his boxers. Scott groans again as he drops his hands back to Stiles’ thighs. Neither of them speak for a long series of moments; they’re too focused on getting their breathing back to normal, of coming down from the high. Once Stiles lowers himself down so he’s no longer holding himself up on his knees, Scott ducks his head into the side of Stiles’ neck, nose pressing right against his pulse point. When he inhales deeply, Stiles can feel Scott’s nostrils flaring against his skin.

“You know,” Stiles says eventually, his voice raspy from thirst, “we could probably still make it to the second half of history.”

“No point,” Scott mumbles against the side of Stiles’ neck. He moves one hand to Stiles’ back and runs it up and down the line of his spine, fingers catching on the knobs of his vertebrae. 

“Alright,” Stiles replies with a shrug. He’s not exactly sure that he even _could_ run; his legs are sore from being cramped up for so long. But a little longer isn’t going to make him feel that much worse, so he simply stays where he is, running one hand through Scott’s tousled hair. It’s only when the dampness in his boxers grows unbearable that he shifts, sliding off Scott’s lap and thudding to the seat beside him. 

“Now we _really_ need to find that other duffel bag,” he sighs, plucking his damp boxers away from his skin. “And some wipes or something.” 

“Do you even have wipes in here?” Scott asks, raising his hips and tugging his jeans back up to his waist, although he leaves them undone. 

“Do you really have that little faith in me?” Stiles scoffs, tugging his own pants up for the time being. “There’s definitely wipes and clean clothes in here. Somewhere. We just have to dig.” 

“You are _so_ lucky that I love you,” Scott sighs. 

“I know,” Stiles says simply. It isn’t in his nature to make grandiose statements about love and connection and all that sappy shit but sometimes, in moments like this, when it’s just him and Scott, some of that stuff peeks out anyways. Scott rolls his head on his shoulder and smiles at him, grin as luminous as the full moon. Stiles holds his gaze until the moment feels too heavy, too much. When he averts his eyes, he clears his throat, gets back onto his knees and spins around to face the cluttered trunk area. 

“Where did all of this shit even come from?” he mutters under his breath, pushing aside a spare blanket. 

“If Ms. Martin catches us,” Scott says, leaning into the front seat and taking a pair of boxers and a t-shirt from the partially unzipped duffel bag containing his clothes, “I’m blaming you for being late. Just so you know.” 

“Scott,” Stiles says, breaking off to yell triumphantly as he fishes the packet of wet wipes out from under a first aid kit, “I’d expect nothing else from you.”

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


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